


A Demonic Miracle

by ineffablegoblin



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining, Alcohol, Best Friends, Canon Compliant, Domestic Fluff, Humor, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Love Confessions, M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-05-12 07:29:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19224502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineffablegoblin/pseuds/ineffablegoblin
Summary: During an apparent rescue, Aziraphale catches Crowley performing a miracle, and suspicions are abound. Aziraphale faces his feelings for the first time. Confessions come to light and some stay in the dark.





	A Demonic Miracle

**Author's Note:**

> The year is 1941, and Crowley has just rescued Aziraphale from a dangerous Nazi rendezvous, but something catches Aziraphale's eye during the commotion that forces him to question Crowley's motives.

Just at the moment the bomb dropped, Aziraphale snapped his fingers, encompassing he and the demon in a holy aura of divine intervention. As the flaming rubble swirled around him violently, Aziraphale’s eyes quickly found Crowley. In the midst of all the chaos, he watched as the demon scanned the room slinkingly, straightened, and casually snapped his own fingers. 

It’s worth noting that the first angel, fallen or otherwise, to induce a miracle by  means other than the classic ominous stare, was in fact Crowley. He had snapped a pair of sunglasses into existence in a stylized moment of theatrics during a recounting of evil deeds. The demons present were so impressed by the extra flare that it quickly became the standard practice. Although Aziraphale claimed that heaven had been doing it that way for years, the first time the angel snapped upon miracling, he couldn’t help but feel as though he looked devilishly cool. He really didn’t. 

But Crowley’s miracle, here in the church, filled Aziraphale with a pang of worry. Here he was rehearsing his speech about the seeds of evil and devising where the devil they would find a decent table in the middle of the Blitz, and Crowley was seemingly here under false pretenses! 

Even worse, the idea had been burning in the back of the angel’s mind since the moment Crowley entered the church. 

_ Holy Water. _

Aziraphale had taken extra precautions during the explosion to shield Crowley from the stuff, and the little devil had it in mind to throw caution to the wind by recklessly procuring it himself, in secret? Or perhaps Crowley didn’t really believe Aziraphale could save them by himself, and was simply humoring him.  _ Sure, Crowley had found him in some compromising positions over the years, but his credentials couldn’t have fallen that low, could they?  _ The angel shuttered at the thought as the dust cleared. 

_ Best not to press the issue.  _ Aziraphale didn’t want to fight, he’d had enough excitement for one night, and had truly abhorred the last quarrel between the two.

“That was very kind of you,” spoke the angel.

“Shut up,” a quick jab; a flash of yellow eyes. 

The demon returned his glasses and settled into the scene casually as a look of horror washed over the angel’s face.

“The books!” 

He cried out, defeated, “I forgot all the books, they’ll all be blown to-”

Aziraphale had hardly noticed Crowley saunter across the battered churchyard and back again when he strode up beside him. 

“Little demonic miracle of my own,” he smirked, outstretching the case of prophetic works and gleaming as the angel registered the gesture, then he turned, swaying back toward the Bentley.

Aziraphale stood clutching the case to his chest as a celestial orchestra swelled between his ears. Looking down at the treasured books and then back up to Crowley, the feeling was tangible. It was a feeling familiar to him of churches, the not so disassembled ones anyway, and yet stronger now than ever before. Maybe it was because he’d never found himself so involved before, or maybe it was the flashes of memories blushing to the surface, because this time the  feeling was so strong he could almost see it in the air. He swallowed hard.

_ Loved. _

* * *

 

“Are you coming, angel?” Crowley hollered.

He flicked his arm to one side as a fine layer of ash lifted itself from the Bentley and into the wind. 

“Ah yes, jolly good,” said Aziraphale, snapping back to attention and stumbling over wreckage to the crumbling curb; they lowered into the car. 

“I must say, angel, I never thought I’d find you consorting with Nazis,” spoke Crowley slyly as he fiddled with the knobs of the massive car radio.  _ News _ , he flicked his tongue in disgust.  _ He’d heard enough of reporting back at head office, this was his night off. _   


“I was not consorting,” the angel pressed, “I was undercover.”

“Well, with friends like these,” Crowley smiled.

“Hmm, quite right,” smiled Aziraphale, “I guess I did get rather caught up in the drama of it all.” 

He paused, “But I really should thank you for-”

“Oh please,” Crowley scoffed, “enough of that now. What do you say we call it even over a bottle of whatever you have stowed in that diabolical little wine cupboard of yours?”

Aziraphale stared at Crowley with a bittersweet smile as the feeling returned for a reckoning.

Crowley looked over his glasses. “Aziraphale?” He quirked.

“Right, yes, the book shop, splendid,” said the angel, straightening. 

Crowley slapped his hands together, “ Auf geht's!” He yelled in German, and peeled down the street at the traditionally alarming speed. Aziraphale clutched the handle and readied himself for a much more exciting night than he’d expected. Flames danced in the rear view mirror and sirens blared into the night.

* * *

 

The room was warm and dim and not the least bit angelic. Books covered every surface apart from the coffee table, which was riddled with empty wine bottles. Crowley had sprawled himself across the long couch, his pork pot hat smashed low on his head.

“I mean- I,” he slurred, “I mean, you know I got love for ‘em.” He dove for his glass.

“Right, humans made this!” He gestured to the wine sloshing around his glass, before downing it. “And this!” He said wetly, grabbing his hat with two hands and bringing it even further down, “And that’s great fun, that’s all great fun, but, but-- where was I going with this?”

“It is a very good hat,” Aziraphale beamed drunkenly.

A bomb whistled overhead accompanied by scattered gunfire.

“That!” He jumped up, “Humans also made that, all-a-that out there! Sometimes I reckon they’ll run me out of the job.” He slumped back down.

Aziraphale’s eyes were wide as he poured himself another glass, nodding attentively from his chair, heart all aflutter. 

“You’re quiet tonight, angel.” Crowley whined, “Usually you’re the talker, and here I am chattering away like a-- chattering ehh.” He frowned sportingly. 

“I had a speech!” Aziraphale kicked, “About evil and- seeds and that.”

Crowley furrowed his brow over his dark glasses.

“But I figured I’d stow it,” Aziraphale said, nursing his glass.

“I like your speeches,” smiled Crowley genuinely, “they’re quite, righteous.” 

Aziraphale blushed. Angels are usually quite good at suppressing involuntary human-like phenomenon like blushing. Aziraphale was not. 

The gramophone blared chaotically in the corner, ♪  and why love will grow from the first hello until the last goodbye, so to sweet romance, there is just one answer, you and I  ♪ 

“And Bing!” Aziraphale hollered, “Humans made Bing Crosbet. Bing Crobber.” The angel struggled.

“Bing Crosby!” Crowley leapt up excitedly, “The jazz man, oh yes!” He pointed a finger. At what? No one could really say.

Aziraphale gazed at him; he felt like they were back in that churchyard.

“You know I’m very grateful for you, don’t you?” Aziraphale blurted. 

The words hung.

Crowley dropped to the couch as if the wine had all leapt to his head at once, his face shocked and still. Aziraphale sobered up almost instantly, and certainly not on purpose. 

“I know I must have told you, for all the things you’ve done. But maybe not just for you? Because I am. I’m very grateful that you’re in my life. That we--” 

He trailed off. Those yellow eyes felt like fire, even under their dark disguise, but alas, he’d started, and for once Crowley wasn’t stopping him. It was as good a time as any.

“That we have this,” he smiled hopefully.

Crowley crossed his legs and brought his chin down on his palm, “What’s brought all this on, angel?” His face looked soft almost, and his voice was gentle. 

“Oh, you know!” Accused Aziraphale, “Everything tonight! The grand rescue, the books!”

Crowley puffed his cheeks and let out the air, arms reaching back against the couch in contemplation. 

“It was the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me,” Aziraphale found the words, “and it would hurt me if you never knew what it meant.” 

“I don’t wanna hurt you,” he said somberly. 

“I know that!” The angel defended. 

The energy in the room was crisp and confusing, and the gramophone filled the empty air. Crowley let out a chuckle. Then laughed, which turned into a hearty bellow. He gripped his chest while Aziraphale searched him for answers, dumbfounded. 

“What are you laughing at?” He yelled, flustered. 

“You’re telling me,” he snorted, “that you’re an  _ angel,  _ and the nicest thing anyone has ever done for you was all--” he gasped and his voice came out higher, “all demony?” He bellowed again. Aziraphale brought a hand to his mouth, and soon the room was full of laughter. 

“Alright, alright.” Aziraphale relaxed, “With friends like these, right?” The angel smiled.

Crowley erupted again, “That’s right,” said the high voice. He coughed and relaxed. 

“But I am too, you know?” Crowley said, “Grateful for this.” 

Aziraphale smiled a smile that meant thank you, and that was that. He was happy. He glanced down to the table and noticed the bottles were full again, and in a way, was even more pleased to know that Crowley’s words had been sober too. 

“It’s late,” said Crowley, “and though I am so good at it, I won’t overstay my welcome. You’ll have to tell me your speech another day, perhaps when we can finally find a bloody table in the Blitz.”

He got up and crossed the room to Aziraphale. He tipped the hat off his head and placed it gingerly atop the angel. He snapped the color to a fitting beige, “Looks better on you anyway,” he shrugged. Blushing abound. 

“And listen, next time you’re thinking of going undercover, just call me, alright?”

“Alright.” Aziraphale smiled, and his eyes grew wide as Crowley leaned down and kissed him on the cheek affectionately.

“Goodnight, angel.” He whispered, and headed for the door.

_ Devilishly cool _ , thought Aziraphale. 

He slipped on his coat and turned around, arms outstretched in the doorway,

“One more thing, angel.” 

Aziraphale looked up sweetly. 

“What if I told you,” smiled Crowley, “that Bing was one of ours?”

“No!” Aziraphale gasped, “A demon?!”

Crowley gave a toothy grin, “Not  _ a _ demon, no, but in league.” 

And then he was gone. Aziraphale exhaled deeply, and arose to gather the bottles, walking on air. He dawned his pajamas, glided into the kitchen, and procured a cup of cocoa. He settled into bed and reached into the case of books for a light read. 

Hours later when he put the book down, he realized he was still wearing the pork pot hat. He set it on the pillow beside him, and with a clever snap, the color returned to black. And even in the dark, it felt loved. 


End file.
